


Some Riot

by Circumbendibustible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:43:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circumbendibustible/pseuds/Circumbendibustible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No-one said having a relationship with Sherlock would be easy. Part two of Solitude and Refuge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Riot

**The second part of the** **_Solitude and Refuge_ ** **trilogy-of-sorts.**

'A friend of mine grows his very own brambles

They twist all around him until he can't move

Beautiful quivering, chivalrous shambles,

What is my friend trying to prove?'

-  _Some Riot_ , by Elbow

* * *

John Watson stands cynically to attention as the anthem is sung. He watches the children's mouths open and shut, hears their sweet pipes in complement to the deeper voices of the British soldiers and feels a loathing for the blind hypocrisy that has brought him, and them, to this point in time. Yes, the Liberating army (as described by the Brits) are pulling out because their 'work' is 'done'. And these children have been indoctrinated by the idea that these Scots, and Irish, and Welsh and English men, these Australians and Americans in their army fatigues are their saviours. But John knows that once left to its own devices their society will fracture again into factions intricately reactive to each other, whether religiously, historically, sexually or in sheer venality, and he dreads the future for these bright, dark-eyed, slender angels who sing so trustingly.

The ceremony ends with the interment of an Unknown Soldier, coffin draped with several National flags, and the Last Post is played as every soldier, including John, salutes it. Once, John would have found this moving, this paying of respect to someone unidentifiable, who could be from any one of a dozen or more countries which sent their young men and women away, to kill and die on foreign soil, far away from the people who love them. Now, John just wonders what gender was this anonymous symbol, how old, who will mourn them. If there's one thing war has taught him in the last two years, it's how humanity gets sucked in, chewed up and swallowed by violence and hatred. For almost all that time, John has been dying to get away, get out from under the war machine, which he can no longer tolerate, excuse or understand. But he's felt he has an obligation towards his fellow soldiers – on both sides – to use his medical knowledge and skills to try and help save as many as he can. And he can no longer judge his fellow men, be they his own kind or the enemy's, not like he did in his first few tours in this sparse and extreme land. He no longer has the moral certainty he had back then, before he was shot, before he was repatriated, before...before.

Now though, he knows his time here is finished. For good. For better or for worst these people are on their own. Independent. Nation builders, they've been called, and John hopes with all of his heart that that's what they are.

And so, he's no longer needed in this country of extremes, by these people of extremity. He too is on his own. Independent. And has absolutely no idea what to do next.

xxx

London's changed a lot since John left. The Olympics have come and gone, and left their mark on the city he loves. He's missed the place. He's missed the people, too, but can't bring himself to get in touch with any of them. When he went away he promised himself a clean cut with his past and thought it only fair that since he was leaving, and Sherlock staying, then their friends should become just Sherlock's. He hasn't spoken to any of them since the day he left, almost two years ago, and doubts they even give him a thought anymore.

He catches himself thinking about Sherlock again. It's hard, here in the city – hell, the  _country_  – that they seem to have travelled every inch of together, not to remember him. Almost as hard as it had been during John's first year or so alone. For that period, John had let himself hope that Sherlock would find him and come to him, that it could all be fixed. That hope had died a natural death over time. John hadn't deluded himself that Sherlock couldn't find him, he was an enlisted army medic for heaven's sake. Sometimes he's wondered if Sherlock's even alive. The road down which he'd been travelling was pretty destructive. That's why John left in the first place.

He remembers their first really big fight, the one that started the dominoes falling. They'd been lovers for a few months – short months, he thinks now – but very sweet. Sherlock and he had returned to Baker Street and had found great happiness there. True, Sherlock was still a bit fragile, uncomfortable with what had happened to him during his time away. It had taken a long time for him to demonstrate any self-confidence without John's presence. He would only leave the flat in John's company, and he showed none of his former pleasure in and love for London, that city he had treated almost like a beguiled lover for as long as John had known him, that city he had explored like an ardent adventurer.

But then, they were both preoccupied, almost obsessively, with each other. In those days of infatuation all either need do was look at the other and there would be that compulsion to have and hold and taste and smell and touch and really it was ridiculous, the amount of time they spent in bed. Or beside it. Even under it (down among the Bluebells, as Sherlock christened the dust bunnies they found lurking there). Or elsewhere in their apartment. Everywhere, really. Though never outside it.

But gradually, John's love for Sherlock was making a difference. Sherlock began to take more notice of the world outside 221B, began to be more confident in himself, to not defer to John's opinion or suggestions with quite the same devotion, much to John's relief. It had been most unsettling, Sherlock's refusal to put himself or his needs or desires above John's. John had tried to get him to do what he, Sherlock, wanted to do, but Sherlock told him he only wanted what John did. That John knew best what Sherlock needed. That he always had. If John hadn't been aware that it was fear which made Sherlock behave this way, he would have found it cloying, stifling. But John did know, none better, that Sherlock was terrified of losing him, and only time and experience would show him that such fears were groundless.

John had enlisted Lestrade's help, and he'd given Sherlock some cold cases to work. It had truly delighted John to watch Sherlock gradually unfurl his timid brain and extend its tentacles, with increasing confidence, towards these puzzles. He'd solved them, of course, and, being Sherlock, that first savour led to an appetite for more.

John saw glimpses of his old Sherlock, the impatient, dictatorial, sulky one, and was overjoyed. The first time Sherlock told him to "keep up, John," John had had him against the wall in no time flat, and reduced his overgrown teenager to a quivering, gasping mess. And as Sherlock saw, finally, that John loved him no matter what, he let down his guard more and more, and John welcomed his old flatmate back at last.

And then they'd taken on their first really important case. John sees it now as the end of the honeymoon. A set of grieving parents had lost a son. Sherlock had found him and his killer, an ex-lover of the father's, who'd known her, biblically speaking, and left her and who murdered the child in revenge. Lestrade had had to inform them that their son was dead, and he'd spoken to John about it beforehand.

"It's the worst part of the job, John," he'd said, sadly. "The wife doesn't even know about the infidelity. I hate to destroy them, but it happens every time and there's no way to soften the blow."

Sherlock overheard him. "I'll do it, Lestrade," he said, nonchalantly. "I'm not squeamish. I don't really care one way or the other."

The other two men went quiet. Sherlock looked at John, who was standing there, mouth agape.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What, John?"

"I...um," John's face had gone white.

"Welcome back Sherlock," Lestrade said, sarcastically, his face distorted by disgust. "I'd forgotten how...sociopathic... you could be. I'll go and do it, now," he told John. "See you later." He didn't look at Sherlock again.

John had turned his back on Sherlock and the trip back to Baker Street had been silent. But back at the flat John couldn't let it go. Sherlock saw his expression and got in first.

"I can't believe you're angry with me. You're overreacting. I simply offered to do something unpleasant on behalf of a friend. How did we get here from that?"

"You...offered... _Unpleasant_ , Sherlock? Really? Telling grieving people that their only child is dead? Murdered? By the woman the father slept with, unknown to the mother?  _Unpleasant_?"

"Well really, John," Sherlock said, huffily, "the husband brought it on himself, after all."

John just looked at him, astounded. He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, unable to express his horror.

He picked up his keys and left the flat.

He paced the streets for hours, trying to overcome his sudden repugnance for the man he truly loved, who had shocked him by his alien-ness, who he felt he maybe didn't really know at all. Eventually, tired and rumpled, with no idea of where else to go, he went home, and there was Sherlock, eyes tortured and chest heaving with terror and John knew that that was down to him.

"Come here, love," he had said, and taken the crazy bastard into his arms, held him and rocked him and soothed him. "You have to think before you speak, Sherlock,' he'd murmured into his lover's ear. "You have to watch your words." And Sherlock had murmured, and silenced John with his mouth and then used the warm, familiar rest of himself to render John inarticulate, though hardly silent.

In retrospect, he notes that Sherlock never agreed or disagreed with John's words. Nor had he apologised. If John'd seen that at the time...would anything be different now?

Probably not, he thinks, resignedly. It wasn't as though it was an isolated incident. There were increasingly frequent signs of Sherlock's...indifference towards other people's feelings. Mostly they showed themselves to strangers, usually clients, and each time, John would try to get Sherlock to see how wrong he was, how hurtful. And Sherlock always listened to John, because it was John, and Sherlock never hurt John, carelessly or deliberately. Not then, anyway.

But they fought hard again, this time over Molly.

There'd been some constraint between Molly and John, ever since Sherlock's return from beyond the grave. John remembers the things he said to Molly at Sherlock's funeral, angry, bitter, drunken words that had driven her away for good. His anger had pushed others away too, but it took more time for some of them to learn the lesson. He knew now that Molly had been relieved to have reason to cut contact with John – she couldn't bear to see him in such pain, and she'd been very concerned that, in a moment of weakness, she'd give Sherlock's secret away.

They hadn't seen Molly till they'd been back at Baker Street for months – she'd taken sabbatical leave and didn't return for some time. And the first time John and Sherlock saw Molly at Bart's, she'd barely been able to meet John's eyes. He saw that she was embarrassed, and took her aside.

"It's alright, Molly, I understand," he told her, and Molly had visibly relaxed somewhat, but was still obviously anxious.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to lie to you, but I didn't have a choice, not when Sherlock explained the situati..."

"It's fine, Molly," Sherlock interrupted, rather condescendingly, "John doesn't blame you. He's aware that you only agreed to help because of the blindingly obvious sentimental feelings you've had for me for so long. Why else do you think I chose you to assist me?"

Molly stared at Sherlock, her face first red with humiliation, then pale. Then she drew her head up, shoulders back, and said, "I thought you chose me because we were  _friends_." She turned away and John moved to take her hand, to follow her, but she stopped and turned and said to him, "John, I've always known you were my friend, even when you were so angry with me, but I couldn't face you and keep lying. I hope we still can be, now."

John kissed her cheek softly. "Of course we're friends," he told her. "And I have to thank you for keeping his secret, because it really was necessary. And please, Molly, forgive him for what he said just now, you know how hopeless he is – and you must know you mean something to him - you're the only person he trusted."

"Yes," she said, bitterly, "he trusted me alright, but only because he could see what a sap I was. Only because he knew I'd do anything for him. He used my feelings for him to get what he wanted and he's shown me tonight  _exactly_  how much those feelings mean to him, or ever did, once he stopped needing my help. And no, John, I won't forgive him, not ever, for making me feel like I'm worth absolutely  _nothing_." She had choked on a sob and left. Lestrade had soon followed, and John realised he'd seen the whole encounter.

This time, John couldn't bring himself to stay another minute in Sherlock's presence. He left, hailing a cab and then finding himself at a loss for a destination. Off the top of his head he told the driver "Diogenes", and leaned back, looking out the window at a grey, wet day that matched his feelings exactly.  
John had seen Mycroft on a fairly regular basis since the detente they had reached at the hunting lodge. He liked Mycroft – had come to regard him as a friend. But Sherlock was still resentful of Mycroft's involvement in any aspect of John's life, and that included his own relationship with John.  _Especially_  his relationship with John. John knew that Sherlock was jealous of both John and Mycroft, of the easiness of their friendship. But he continued to hope that Sherlock would come to terms with their companionship when things had settled down.

Trouble was, they hadn't.

xxx

"John," Mycroft smiled, eyebrow raised quizzically but welcome in his voice. "How pleasant to see you. What's wrong?"

John grinned in reply as they shook hands, then bit his lip, rueful. "Yeah, Mycroft, there is something wrong. Sorry that's what it takes to get us together. Maybe one day..."

"What is your concern, John?" Mycroft asked, cutting to the chase with Holmesian focus. "I assume it's Sherlock?"

But when it came to the crunch, John didn't really know what to say. So Sherlock was being rude? Well yes, he's Sherlock. He was indifferent; careless of people's feelings? High-functioning sociopath, remember? Though John for one, rejected that term when it came to Sherlock.

John had difficulty qualifying the change he'd noticed in Sherlock of late. The closest he could get was that while Sherlock had always, in the past, been careless of people's feelings, he'd never been deliberately, casually cruel. As he was now.

"Has he hurt you, John?" Mycroft asked soberly.

"No," John said, "no, not on purpose. But it hurts me to see him treat other people so badly. And he seems to have become very judgmental – it's almost as though he can justify being cruel by blaming the victim. He's never been like that before."

They settled in deep armchairs and drank forty year old Laphroaig, companionably. John had proven to himself time and time again that he could handle small quantities of liquor, limit himself. He had it under control. When John left it was with a little regret that the experience was unlikely to be repeated any time soon, and a warmth in his belly, from friendship and the mellow scotch, which carried him back to Baker Street.

Sherlock was angry in the way that only Sherlock could be when John walked into 221B. He scanned John, from the tips of his snowed-upon boots to the roseate hue on his cold cheeks, and sneered, "There you are, John, do tell me how was my dear, sweet brother?"

It didn't work. John knew Sherlock was upset, and that getting a hit in first was one of his strategies when he knew someone (think  _John_ , Sherlock didn't care about what anyone else thought about him) was angry with him.

Normally, Sherlock would be concerned enough that John could make him look at his words or actions, make him see why they were unacceptable to John, whilst assuring him that John loved him. Normally Sherlock would try to be kinder, even if not for long. This time, however, Sherlock didn't back down.

"Oh, come on John," he said snidely, when John confronted him about his treatment of Molly, "look at the stupid girl. She  _knows_  I'm with you; she  _must_  have known my feelings when she assisted in my death, but she still makes cow-eyes at me and blushes and goes breathless. A ninny, John, she's a ninny!"

"A friend, Sherlock, she's a friend. She's never harmed you, has done you nothing but good."

"Maybe I should just take her, John?" Sherlock said, his voice bored, eyes mean. "Is that what you think? Bend her over the autopsy table? Do you think that might cure her of her stupid little yen?"

John looked at him in shocked disgust. "What's happening to you, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice disappointed and unhappy. "I don't get what's feeding this mood of yours. Are you angry? Unhappy? Please, Sherlock, let's work it out together. I can't bear to see you like this, so bitter and hard. You were never like this before...before..."

"What...Before I jumped, John? You can call it what it was. I don't need euphemisms for what I did. I can handle the reality."

"Yes," John snapped. "But maybe  _I_  can't. Every time I think about it I see you fall again. I still see it in my nightmares. I know you felt you had to do it, but it still plays havoc with me. Not a good experience for someone with PTSD."

"Oh, for God's sake, John,  _enough!_  So you had a bad time while I was gone – for how long am I supposed to tiptoe around your feelings.  _I_  had a less than optimal experience myself but I still managed the work, and I didn't have to be inebriated permanently to cope, either."

John was shocked into silence. He looked at Sherlock as though he no longer recognised him, his mouth open in a way Sherlock hadn't seen since the first days of his return, when John had been so angry he couldn't think straight. John looked... what was that plebeian yet expressive term used by the masses? Gobsmacked, that was it. John was a picture of gobsmackedness.

John shut his mouth with an audible clash of teeth. His eyes were dull metal, his jaw set. He turned and left.

Sick to his stomach, John found the idea of returning to Baker Street impossible. He wound up sleeping on Lestrade's fold-out that night. Lestrade had made it clear that John was welcome to talk about anything he needed to air, and offered John his lumpy sofa-bed for as long as he needed it. John thanked him, but couldn't discuss Sherlock. Instead he went to bed early, his mind returning again and again to Sherlock's disdainful words about John's previous problems with alcohol.

John had been so ashamed of the man he'd become before Mycroft had intervened, when his life had been a fog of bright red anger and a desperation for the numbness to be found at the bottom of a bottle. Well, several bottles. Crates, realistically. He'd hurt people he cared about – he still couldn't forgive himself for his treatment of Mrs Hudson in those dark days, though every one of his friends had forgiven him and welcomed him back with a generosity borne of love.

And Sherlock  _knew_  how John felt. Sherlock had held him as he wept out his shame and self-recrimination.

But Sherlock had now deliberately used that against him. As John had never, ever, used Sherlock's previous dependency on drugs against  _him_.  _Ever_.

In the morning John checked his phone, which he'd turned off the night before, not wanting to deal with Sherlock's usual bank of texts. There was one, from Mycroft. That was it. Sherlock hadn't tried to call, or left messages or anything and this, more than all the rest, scared John.

At Bart's he had his head half turned all day, expecting Sherlock to walk up behind him. John's radar was so attuned to the man that he believed he could feel him halfway down the street, but Sherlock was a no show, and by the end of the day there was a sick, sad feeling in John's belly and he realised things were really, really bad. Any time before now, John would have gone charging home to confront the man he loved. Any time before now, Sherlock would have welcomed him desperately and they'd have sorted it out together.

But any time before now, John would not have felt he'd been living with a stranger. He would not have been so completely alienated by Sherlock's incomprehensible behaviour. John felt he'd already been too easy – Sherlock obviously took it for granted that John would always forgive him, come home, turn a lovingly blind eye.

Not this time, John thought, setting his chin forward. This time Sherlock needed a lesson.

So John called Mycroft and asked himself over to stay the night in his spare bedroom. One of them. Mycroft was concerned, but not overly. They played chess, which Mycroft won, and Scrabble, which John won, and discussed politics (which made a welcome change for John – Sherlock's knowledge of politics was as extensive as his knowledge of the solar system), and enjoyed each other's company generally. Neither spoke of Sherlock, but when John bade Mycroft goodnight the latter said, "Don't be overly anxious, John, you know his propensity for sulking if he's criticised. He'll get over it."

And yes, John was aware of Sherlock's snits, but he hadn't felt so distant since the long, agonising absence which had separated the two of them after Sherlock's fall.

And in the morning Sherlock's messages, his pleas for John to come home, were conspicuous by their absence.

On the fourth day, after work, John went home. He told himself he needed clothes, and that if he hadn't already outstayed his welcome at Mycroft's he was about to. He couldn't help the sick, leaden feeling of dread that grew with each of his seventeen steps upstairs to 221B.

In the event, he needn't have worried. The flat was empty of life, other than the blue-green algae Sherlock had been cultivating in the bathtub. The man himself had obviously not been home for some time. The place felt and smelt abandoned and as John wandered from room to room,  _he_  felt that way too. The stillness of the air, the closed windows, the muffled unresonance of his own footsteps – all created in John a sense of desolation and neglect. Though he'd only been gone four days it felt much longer.

He shook himself, shook this sensation of abandonment like a dog shaking off water. Looked for clues as to where Sherlock had gone, and when, but called Mycroft instead. Made tea while he waited for the British Government to call him back.

Sherlock walked in while John was still waiting.

"Where the  _fucking_  hell have you been?" John snarled, as soon as the door closed behind Sherlock. "Do you have any idea how  _worried_  I've been about you?" As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. He sounded like a cranky mother admonishing an errant teenager. He sounded shrill.

At that moment, John's mobile rang. Mycroft. "Call back later," he told him, tersely and switched the phone off.

Sherlock's eyes were flat, his face supercilious as he looked silently at John, removing his scarf and coat with his usual spare elegance. Directing a look of distaste, of disdain, at John he drawled; "In response to your first question, I do not recognise what right you suppose you have to demand of me an explanation of my whereabouts. And in answer to your second: I don't believe you've worried much at all, considering you've just spent four nights away. At my brother's, indeed." Sherlock made a moue of disgust. "Under the circumstances, I'd like you to leave," he said.

John felt the breath leave his chest, his legs almost buckling in his shocked dismay.

"What circumstances, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice trembling a little. He couldn't bear this, the frigid tones of his lover, the ice-cold shock that was threatening to bring him undone. He drew a determined breath, made his voice true. "Under what circumstances could you possibly want me to leave?"

"I no longer recognise your right to ask for anything of me, including explanations. You have a week to move out." Sherlock turned his back on him, shut him out of their bedroom, the door closing with a passionless click, locking himself inside. John stared for a moment at the blank surface, then went and banged on it.

" _No_ , Sherlock, this is  _not_  how we do things! Come here and talk about it. Tell me what the fuck is going on with you! How can I fix it if I don't know what's  _wrong_?" And he hated himself, for sounding so needy, so abject. He considered kicking the door in, but thought that would be too melodramatic, even for the King of Melodrama himself, on its other side. He sat outside it for a while, occasionally yelling at Sherlock through its unfeeling wood, but the door stayed shut.

He lay on the sofa, covering himself with the tatty throw rug, head cushioned on the Union Jack. He would talk to Sherlock tomorrow, straighten everything out. He loved Sherlock almost painfully, right then. He refused to let himself feel the knot of fear which was curling in his gut. Sherlock loved  _him_ , he had no doubt about that. And one didn't, he told himself (trying not to sound desperate, even to himself), fall out of love so quickly. They would sort it tomorrow. Eventually he slept.

In the morning the bedroom door stood open and the room was empty.

At the end of the week, Sherlock returned to 221B.

John had not packed his things. He had no intention of leaving and had planned to talk to Sherlock as soon as possible about the situation, but he'd been stymied by Sherlock's absence. Against his better judgment he'd asked Mycroft to look for him, but despite all of the resources at his fingertips, even he'd had no success. Now John watched Sherlock carefully, trying to gauge his mood.

Sherlock was as cold and unreachable as he'd been before.

"You have till midnight to move your possessions out," he said, calmly. "Then they will be left on the street for whoever wants them. You will not spend another night under this roof."

"Sherlock, be reasonable. We need to sort this –  _us_  – out. I  _love_  you, you know tha..."

"There is no 'us' John." Sherlock's eyes, when they rested on John's face, were empty. "I have deleted 'us'."

John tried, he really did. He said everything he could, he explained himself and his feelings, he apologised for the possibility that he'd been unfair (though he knew he hadn't, Sherlock needed to be told when things were not good – and they hadn't been), and at last he'd tried to hold Sherlock, to put his arms around him. Sherlock hadn't even tensed with John's touch; anymore than one would tense at the touch of a mosquito or another small, insignificant pest. He just stood there, as though he was waiting for a bus, until John, defeated, dropped his hands to his sides and wilted.

Then, Sherlock strode across to their bedroom. "Midnight, John," he said, and closed the door behind him again.

John collapsed into his chair, hands over his face. There was nothing he could do. Sherlock was implacable. Time passed, but he couldn't clock it.

The bedroom door opened, and he looked up, wild hope leaping into his heart and mind, but Sherlock, so heartbreakingly familiar in his pyjama bottoms and the old blue dressing gown that John couldn't look away, was carrying a box, which he placed by the front door. "Your things from the bathroom, " he said, then returned to the bedroom and brought out John's suitcase.

"Your clothes are in there," he said. He looked at his watch. "Better get a move on, John, it's after 11:30."

"Sherlock!  _Please_  be reasonable! I have nowhere to go, nowhere to take my things even if I had time to pack them before midnight."

"You've had a week, John. You haven't got much more anyway – what, a few books? Your laptop? No great loss to you, and I'm sure there'll be plenty of interest from the man in the street. Goodbye, John. Please ensure you leave your key with Mrs Hudson." And back he went into his bedroom, shutting John out sight and out of mind.

Mrs Hudson. Yes. He ran down the stairs, knocked on her door. It took a little while for her to answer; she was sleep-rumpled and yawning. But she took one look at his face and gave a little cry.

"John, dear! Come in, what's happened?"

The concern in her voice almost brought him undone.

"I can't stop to explain, Mrs H," he told her, his voice shaky, "but I need somewhere to store my belongings and I need it quickly. Could I use 221C? I know its empty and I hoped..."

"Of course you can, John!" the redoubtable lady told him. "But I don't understand...Why?"

"I'm leaving 221B," he said apologetically, starting up the stairs. He'd seen by her clock that he had less than five minutes left. "I'll explain later!"

Back at the flat he threw all his books outside the front door, grabbed his personal papers and memorabilia – certain he'd miss things in such a rush – carried his box and bag downstairs and collected the key for the basement flat from Mrs Hudson. By midnight he'd moved most of his things from outside 221B and was hot and breathless but emotionally numb from the overwhelming nature of the night's events. He was trudging up the stairs for the last of his books when the door opened and Sherlock appeared. He held a box out for John to take and said, "I rather think that's the lot, now." He gave John a wide, fake, put-my-best-manners-on smile and said, "Goodbye, John. All the best for the future," as if John was an acquaintance, a flatmate, a nothing-to-me-person, and John realised that if Sherlock had deleted him that  _was_  probably all John now was to him.

But John had no delete button and he didn't pull his punches.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," he said, bitterly. Did Sherlock's eyes widen a bit, was it surprise John saw there? "I will always love you. Any time you want to sort this out, any time you need me, I'll be there. I'll leave my contact details at Barts'." He waited for a response. None came. "Right, then. I'll be going. I've given Mrs Hudson the key." And he was proud that he walked down the stairs with his back straight and his head high, straight through those familiar entrance doors and onto the street, where, a block away, he sagged supporting himself hands on knees like an exhausted runner, in so much agony of mind that he felt he couldn't walk any further.

So it was just as well that a long, black, gleaming car pulled sleekly up beside him, and it was welcome relief that Mycroft himself helped him into the back seat and handed him a stiff drink. John waved it away. "I don't dare," he told Mycroft, ruefully. "I feel too much like getting utterly shitfaced. Got to keep it under control."

"Very well, John," Mycroft said, and his voice was sympathetic and calm, just what John needed. "Tell me what has happened tonight, it distresses me to see you in such...discomfort."

"Oh, Mycroft, I'm fucked if I know what's going on. He's – Sherlock's thrown me out. He's chucked all my things out of the flat – thank God for Mrs Hudson, my entire existence is sitting in boxes and bag in her mouldy old basement bedsit. No, strike that, my entire existence is ensconced in 221B, deleting the last little bit of John Watson from his big, bloody, bastardly brain so he doesn't have to think of the unpleasantness of our last few encounters. I wish to God that I could do the same, Myc **roft** , it fucking hurts," he bent his face towards his lap, humiliated at being seen like this.

But Mycroft rested his hand on John's shoulder, his thumb describing small soothing circles on his scapula. "I once told Sherlock that caring is not an advantage," he said, "this is why." John raised his head and smiled wanly at the British Government, who looked soberly back at him and said, "Well, John? What now? Of course you're coming to your own room at my place while you...we...work out what is best for you." John opened his mouth to protest but Mycroft drew a flat hand smoothly across the air between them and said," I don't mean to be high-handed, John, but I regard you as family, as well as a good friend. I don't make friends easily and I'd prefer not to lose one of my few on Sherlock's account. And maybe I can help you discover what's going on with my brother."

John sighed, rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension in them. "I'll certainly take you up on the offer of the room," he said, "and gladly. But whatever's going on with him, I think knowing you and I were discussing him would make things even worse. He doesn't like our friendship."

"I sometimes think you have no idea just how very much he hates it, John. You know that's because he feels threatened, don't you?"

"Of course, Mycroft. I don't even need to be a consulting effing detective to know that. What I can't comprehend is  _why_  he is so hostile to you. I mean, I get the sibling rivalry – been there, done that myself, but you know, beneath the Holmes-ish stuffiness and the intimidating intellect you're actually a good bloke." Mycroft smiled a genuinely sweet smile, eerily reminiscent of Sherlock's, at John for that comment. "I've tried to make him see that," John continued, "but with very negative results."

"I can imagine the ensuing – er – discussion," Mycroft said, ruefully.

They sat in silence in the purring car, John's tension dispersing to a certain extent against the smooth leather and the wonderful suspension of the seats. When they reached the imposing manse (which Sherlock used to call Mycroft's edifice complex), Mycroft spoke again.

"Very well, John, I agree. You will stay as long as you need, and we will not discuss my brother. But anything else I can do for you I'll do, so keep me informed of your plans."

In the event, the best plans laid followed the usual path such plans take. In all of the kerfuffle of his moving out, John's attention had been drawn to a letter from the Defence Force he'd received some weeks before, which had requested his further services in Afghanistan. He would not be required in the frontline as he had been, rather his capacity as a possible instructor for trainee field medics would be put into play. Of course he'd never considered it seriously – he couldn't leave Sherlock – but it had given him a bit of a boost in his self-esteem. He may be a little clapped-out, he thought, but he was obviously still useful. He'd put the letter away in his top drawer with all his other military stuff but had noticed it again as he carried the boxes of his possessions down to 221C.

So on the Friday, a week after leaving Baker Street, a week in which he'd heard nothing from Sherlock, John went back and, having located the letter, decided with a rush of fearful adrenalin, to take advantage of the visit as a last ditch stand to try to talk to Sherlock.

He knocked at the door of 221B for some time, but it stayed shut. He could swear, though, with the Sherlock-sense he carried in his very cells, that the man was inside. All of a sudden a vague feeling that something was not right – was very wrong - with Sherlock assailed him and he knew he  _must_  get inside.

Mrs Hudson had been pleased to see him and willingly gave him the key to the basement flat, but seemed most uneasy when he asked her for the key to 221B. "Very strange goings on, John, in there," she nodded her head towards the stairs, looking up."Not a lot of noise, but it doesn't feel...good." she told him. But she gave him the key, though hesitantly, and John mounted the familiar stairs again with a gut full of apprehension, embarrassment and – so weak was he – hope.

He knocked, but there was no response. He could see that the light in the living room was on. He bit the bullet, unlocked and opened the door, and then held onto it for desperate support when he took in the sight of Sherlock, sprawled on the couch, tourniquet attached to his arm, empty syringe on the floor beside him. It was obvious he was still alive, though his head was back and even though his eyes were almost closed, John could see the merest glint of colour and reflection between the dark lashes, although there was no movement. He wasn't even dreaming. But that was not the worst.

The worst was the youngish man who was leaning back against Sherlock's chest. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and John could see the trackmarks up his arms, scabbier with age but still oozing a bead of blood from the last time he hit up. He too was on the nod, and a thread of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth. The syringe he'd used was cradled limply in the hand which rested in his lap.

John stood like marble, his chest pounding with his racing blood. He knew, finally, that it was over. Sherlock was lost to him. He shut the door behind him. Ice moved through his veins, took up lodgings in his heart. He gave the key to Mrs Hudson, who recognised John's expression as the one he'd worn after he'd seen Sherlock jump.

"He's – he's not dead, John?" she asked him, white-knuckled.

"He'll live," John said, sadly. "For the moment." He kissed her goodbye. "I'll send for my things when I'm settled. Thanks, Mrs Hudson, for everything."

And he left. He flew out of London for Afghanistan the following week.

He'd not been back to Baker Street since.


End file.
